


Upending Reality

by QueenEchidna



Category: The LEGO Movie (2014)
Genre: Caretaking, Character Study, Gen, I dunknow, Multiple Personalities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1224361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenEchidna/pseuds/QueenEchidna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>No amount of quiet reassuring from Good Cop will quell his aching heart and head: things aren’t the same, and only now does Bad Cop realize just how many people despise him in a way that, before- under President Business’ watch- he was able to ignore, and pass off because it hadn’t mattered. It matters now though.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upending Reality

**Author's Note:**

> Part of me cannot believe I've become so infatuated with this movie in such a short time, but it's honestly really great ^-^
> 
> So this is kind of a post-movie character study I did for Bad Cop. Enjoy and tell me what you think. 8)  
> (I also am realizing it's hard to put tags on a fic for a fandom that isn't super developed yet :/)

There are no longer any constants; there isn’t any amount of cryptic ambivalence that he grew up with and thrived in- an enigma, part of which he still feels contented with despite the iniquitous particulars, the likes of which has been dissipated to nothingness in favor of a renewed union of free-thinking and unruly sovereignty that he absolutely _despises_. Bad Cop’s morose defiance of the newly established municipality not only leaves him quiet and hidden in the furthest bounds of his apportioned mind, but rather worries his parents, and anyone else who seems to have been unfortunate enough to see him as more than someone to be ignored. 

His mother asks him, rather, she inquires to Good Cop- newly acquired silver-framed glasses sat rightfully on the bridge of his nose- as to why she has not heard from the other, _easily_ more mentally depraved section, of her son’s mind. She’s feigning worry; but Bad Cop hears the hopeful respite to her tone, and sees- through his better half’s eyes- the youthful countenance enveloping her aging features. The same joyous reserve is just as observable in his father’s smile as he speaks to Good Cop day-to-day, and it’s the almost insignificant comments that are so drastically important to Bad Cop: _“I’ve missed this part of you.” “You’re a joy to have around nowadays.”_ Such words remain in the hollow chasm of his mind, filling an already painful, open wound with salt and sand and an unknowing vile that taints his very state of being. 

No amount of quiet reassuring from Good Cop will quell his aching heart and head: things aren’t the same, and only now does Bad Cop realize just _how many people_ despise him in a way that, before- under President Business’ watch- he was able to ignore, and pass off because it hadn’t mattered. It matters now though. 

The care, which he assumes automatically is nothing more than shallow pity, he receives from the annoying, too-friendly builders who brought his seemingly model world to a new, comprehensible definition through a smudged pair of aviators and a clouded set of eyes. He hates them for making him quarry to his own mistakes. 

And at first he thought he could take it, he himself had never been completely barren of new ideas, and that maybe this new world, one lacking in all things uniform and documented, could be feasibly bearable. But Bad Cop determined very rapidly that it was not something he would be used to anytime soon, so while he snuck back into the darkness, to a cold corner of his head where he could remain neutral and numb till an unknown date- Good Cop thrived, and his parents were happy, so was everyone else, even President Business- so maybe it was not all _so_ terrible. 

It is dark and quiet for a long, long time, until his better half gently prods at his consciousness early one passing morning; he can feel the gentle smile, and hear the calm tone of voice that gently stirs him until he finds the energy to respond: a weak, unintelligible grumble in the fog. “Someone is here to see you.” His better half’s voice is chipper and eternally upbeat, but comforting and familiar in a way that quells his uncertainty. His frayed mind doesn’t connect the words and their meaning; he doesn’t bother trying to see through his partner’s eyes, doesn’t care about anything that anyone has to say.

Then there’s a force, a pressure on his neck that stimulates an ingrained compulsion to fight; so he does. 

He takes control, reflexively reaching up to flip his tinted aviators down over his eyes, but cannot find them; he suspects as much, his better half’s vision is piss-poor and it’s beginning to strain his own head to filter the images through such a heavy prescription. Groggy and dulled, he grabs the wrist that’s attached to the hand that’s pressing against his neck; surprisingly it’s not his own.

Whomever it is receives a full-body-check and nearly a fist to the face, and maybe the course of action wasn’t entirely warranted, and he determines almost immediately that he doesn’t need to physically harm whoever it may be; but he’s angry, and not at this person, but more so at _everything_ because it’s not the way he’s always known it to be. The unfortunate soul beneath him was just unlucky enough to be too close. 

Wracking the front of his skull, he can feel Good Cop ushering him into acquiescent silence through a hearty cloud of pent-up anguish and more than a smidgen of anomalous fear. But the only thing that stops him is a far-gone familiar voice that calls out _It’s me! It’s me!_ until he is coherent enough to violently rip the high prescription spectacles off his face so he can see; and the sight before him is so familiar that for a moment, Bad Cop is almost fooled into thinking his world isn’t turned upside down. 

His muscles gradually de-tense and he rests back on his haunches just waiting for his mind to catch up with his eyes. “Sir?” The word, the title, is so familiar on his tongue, and comes as an instinct to correlate in harmony with the greying brown hair and a set of tired eyes, strained from years of secrets and misguided delusions of virtuous inceptions and disobliging misinterpretations of a superlative society. It’s President Business. 

For all it is worth, his former boss is smiling, in a way that seems more authentic, more _genuine_ than he’s ever seen, an assumed visage that doesn’t have any concealed contrivances that will inevitably still the bustling crowds or otherwise revise an established population. The former president isn’t making any moves; understands that his previously revered colleague can no longer be looked at as possessing an undeviating mindset.

“You alright?” The former dictator wonders after a few lagging moments of silence, his hands gently making contact with the fist gripping the front of his suit. The touch is estranged, as is any kind of contact from anyone but his parents, and even _those_ gentle embraces are becoming ghosts against his numb skin.

He nods and ushers himself backwards and to his feet clumsily, not yet familiar with this portly body and less-than jerky reactions that his better half as assumed over the past year; the soft cotton sweater drapes excessively off his frame, adorned with an appallingly dandelion yellow and candy-apple green hatched pattern. There is a queer lack of support as he slowly pads back from his former boss, cluing him in on the reality that is his lack-of combat boots, along with the absence of any sort of clanging, reminding him that his better half is not a fan of walking around with ringfuls of keys, a baton, Taser, handcuffs, and any manner of other things that would otherwise rattle and make noise. To say he feels naked is an understatement. 

President Business hauls himself up and straightens his jacket, and only then does Bad Cop realize how casual the other man looks when compared to the ingrained image he’s got in his head that he’s kept on a pedestal since the last time he saw his boss; he still wears the same grey blazer, but the lack of tie is a stark difference, and the way he wears his button-up with the top three buttons un-done is alarming. There’s a certain sloppy casualness in the way Business’ hair is not the same defined blockish shape, gelled and styled to the extent of near-ridiculousness and anything but the natural flop of hazelnut locks he sees now. 

He feels like a fool standing there awkwardly with his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, heart beating quickly in a discomforting mix of embarrassment and anxiety; the sweater feels absurd on him, he’s never wanted to run away more. In fact- he’s never wanted to run away _at all_ until now. His voice is trapped in his throat but his legs work without order as they jerk him towards his room and his hands make quick work of locking the door behind him.

He listens to his rapid-pace breathing as he shucks off the oversized sweater, tossing it into a tangled lump, and reaching for the bottom drawer of his dresser and feeling blindly for the old familiar feel of chill faux leather beneath his fingers. He finds it shoved beneath a neat stack of striped polo shirts: his favorite leather jacket still decorated with the police force patches and Micro-Manager emblem, his name remains embroidered along the back of the jacket in a blocky font with white threading. 

After staring at it for a few lingering seconds, Bad Cop ushers his arms into the sleeves and eventually zips the front closed. It’s a tighter fit than he remembers, and when he tugs the belt through the loops around his waist- it hugs his frame tighter than it ever has when he pulls it to the notch which he’s always used. But he readily ignores it and hurries to pull on a pair of blue jeans he distinctly remembers wearing around the house when he used to relax between work and bed.

Stepping back outside into the living room, he sees President Business sitting on his couch, patiently fiddling with a novelty toy his better half insists on keeping around; his brow is relaxed, as is his posture, which is something Bad Cop is not used to seeing, and it unnerves him almost as much as walking up to his boss with a pair of over-casual pants on and without his helmet or aviators does. 

President Business notices him and stands up to greet him, “Bad Cop.” It’s a simple greeting when he reaches his hand out to shake, but the former officer is too shell-shocked to reciprocate the gesture with any amount of energy as he lucidly reaches his hand to shake. The grip that envelopes his hand is firm and full of energy, “Good to see you again buddy.” He flinches and nearly jerks his hand away as a reaction to _hearing_ the casual greeting, another thing he’s so _not_ used to that it hurts. 

Finally he speaks after a bout of silence, “Yes, and you, sir.” He mumbles and lets his hand drop back down to his side.

His mind is hazy and in hind-sight, he does not remember the entirety of the awkward, tense conversation that takes placed thereafter, all manner of overwrought pleasantries leading into a medley of inadequate justifications. President Business, as it turns out, must have made a few relatively valid statements because the next time Bad Cop is fully aware of what’s going on, he’s being seated at a café table outside of a recently rebuilt coffee shop, a gentle hand rested on the small of his back until he sits down in the black, intricately-patterned chair.

The sun is high in the sky, so he assumes it’s about noon, and he has to squint harshly against the light due to his lack of glasses; he subconsciously runs his hand through his hair to distract himself as President Business is seated across from him. The other man orders a couple of coffees and remains silent until the waiter stalks away with a notepad and pencil in hand.

Bad Cop stares mindlessly at the table, and at his hands, and eventually chances a hesitant look up at his former boss, but he meets another set of eyes with his own and automatically turns away. The other man turns his head curiously, a concerned expression very visible, “Are you alright? Not only have I not seen you for months, but you’re not acting like yourself, I mean-“ He hesitates and sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, “I understand your disconsolation with the end result of our endeavors. But you seemed contented enough when all was said and done.”

His voice dips an octave lower as he continues, “And I promised you I would make sure you remained as fulfilled as you were before, that no one would mistreat you because of things _I_ had you do.” Again he pauses and averts his eyes momentarily, and Bad Cop notices just how cautious his former boss is being, and it is such a blatant contrast to the domineering nature President Business was renowned for, that it has completely thrown him for a loop and only succeeds in driving him further away into the recesses of his mind. 

He wants so badly to run home, because suddenly the sun is too bright, and it’s far too warm outside, and his goddamn leather jacket could not feel more foreign against his skin. His better half is right there, however; a comforting embrace against his plagued consciousness, and in the painful buzzing of his head he can hear the dulcet tone that consistently placates any number of emotional complications. This time he must be showing his discomfort outwardly because President Business is touching his hands again, soft fingers against his tightly-clenched fists. The expression on the older man’s face is worried in a way that’s not familiar at all and sets off even more calloused fear in Bad Cop’s clusterfuck of a head.

“C’mon.” He hears the soft tone of voice and feels the hand wrapping around his wrists and tugging him to a standing position. And then they’re walking, through the city and through hyperactive crowds scurrying back-and-forth like ants in a colony; building and thinking sporadically in a way only free and unopposed people can. It gives him a headache very quickly.

But then things get quiet, and the overbearing noise of the crowds is replaced with a smooth flow of soft jazz music, and the heat of the day dissipates into a cooling draft the same way the painful sunlight does. Looking around he finds himself in a shop no larger than his old office; the lights are warm and florescent but still strangely bright. He stands awkwardly where he halted when Business released his wrist, knees partly bent, hands hanging uselessly at his sides and occasionally swinging gently against his pant leg. 

The steady draft encompassing him makes it obvious there aren’t very many other patrons present that would otherwise create a cross-breeze, but he feels a pair of eyes on him, and is coherent enough to glance over and catch the cashier stealing a look at him. The young lady quickly turns away and pretends to busy herself with emptying coin sleeves into the cash register. 

Under his feet, he feels the chill of the floor through the poorly-insulated sneakers that he knows full-well belong to his better half, it’s a bit uncomfortable which causes him to shuffle his weight from foot-to-foot. 

There’s another minute of absolutely nothing running through his head, nothing but an empty flow of unfiltered, misinterpreted visual data that does not entirely click. What draws him back to focus is a gentle touch to his jaw, turning his head to one side and steadying him before sliding _something_ onto his face and settling it over the bridge of his nose, and ears. It’s such a ridiculously familiar feeling that his grip on reality is reinstated, or at the very least he begins to move voluntarily and starts thinking progressively; his hands come up delicately to trace the smooth metal wire that leads from behind his ears outward.

The room is no longer so bright.

His eyes focus through the tinted lenses and he registers the gentle smile on the face of the man before him, and for the first time all day, he does not feel so out of his element. 

The aviators fit him just right and soothe him into near-normality allowing him to cease using his better half as a metaphysical crutch. “There we are.” President Business’ voice is still calm, but there is a familiar exuberance that Bad Cop recognizes from years of listening to commands and mandates through the television and more so in person. If he had his helmet it might feel like things are serene. “I thought that might be the problem. Good Cop told me about how he misplaced your glasses when you stopped using them.” He digs into his pants-pocket and slaps a few bills down on the counter, which the cahier takes and nods in thanks; she goes to return his change but he waves her off in favor of placing a hand on Bad Cop’s back and leading him back outside. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” Bad Cop mumbles, fumbling discretely with his belt and the clasps of his jacket, suddenly not feeling the necessity to have it all tied so constrictingly. The loosened clothing lets him breathe deeper and relax even as he’s led back through the crowds and the noise. 

President Business ushers him through another door a few minutes later, and again all the noise and light fades away; the air here is enveloping in a warm way, and he’s contented with being led over and sat on, what he assumes, is a sofa- going on the soft feel of cushions and cloth beneath him. The ambiance is that of domestic serenity, and it’s annoyingly familiar. 

“Things have been going decently for the others, and myself; they’re worried for you.” The older of the two states softly, taking a seat next to his former employee. 

Bad Cop _hmphs_ , “Worried _for me_ , or worried about what unfortunate souls I may be torturing?” He wonders, his voice sounding not only strained but full of vinegar and restrained spite; it is painfully obvious that no one would ever be worried about him, and he is not appreciating being lied to, even by his boss. 

“ _For_ you, dummy.” The other man smiles again. “That Brickowski kid for one, says he understands what you’re going through.” He admits, looking down and away. “Realizing that things aren’t…well, aren’t as great as you thought.” Bad Cop would be lying if he says hearing that doesn’t interest him, “And he’s prepared to talk with you, or get a coffee.” Being able to sit still and take part in a conversation is an old familiar pleasantry that he’s immensely pleased at, and the mental stimulation is a renewed exercise for his molasses-lagged brain. “And- well… you don’t talk anymore.” And there is a good reason for that, the silence is much more comforting, and his time alone with his better half is the most beneficial thing for him; he knows, everything else annoys ( _Scares, intimidates, pains_ ) him. “ _I’m_ worried.” 

Behind his aviators he rolls his eyes and sneers at what he’s 99% sure is just another lie. His better half chuckles warmly at him and whispers a few heartfelt promises; reassurance that if anyone besides his parents ( _If even them? Do they even still like him?_ ) were to be worried, it would be President Business. That thought, however, is strange, because not only do people tend to not care for the mentally disrupted, but he isn’t supposed to worry; Presidents don’t worry about Police Chiefs.


End file.
